


One of Them

by SirKai



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Medical, Medical Procedures, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirKai/pseuds/SirKai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly disastrous rescue mission, Cyclonus recovers from his injuries aboard the Lost Light and helps Ratchet tend to one mangled crewmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Them

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kashi/Uniformshark](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kashi%2FUniformshark).



> A birthday gift for my friend Kashi! I hope she enjoys this! :)

He felt worn. The ex-decepticon marched down the hall from the medbay, scraping energon from his plating. Cyclonus had priorities. He wanted to retire to his quarters and put himself in stasis until everyone had welded themselves back together after such a disastrous mission. While he had departed on the Lost Light with middling expectations, especially with the autobots in such disarray , Cyclonus was wondering how many doomed exploration vessels he could possibly be cursed to serve aboard. 

Quick, clanging footsteps rounded the corner into the hallway behind him. Cyclonus turned to see Ratchet narrowing an expectant look at him.

Cyclonus knew there would be catches to being a stowaway aboard a vessel populated with autobots, and that namely came in the form of taking orders from autobots. There weren’t many crewmates on board with the nerve to test that stipulation.

“Cyclonus! If you’re able, I need you in here now.”

Ratchet however, was one of them. 

Cyclonus followed the medic back into the infirmary. There were rows of slab-confined autobots, almost all of them leaking energon to the metal floor and groaning in pain. First Aid was leaning over one of them and soldering a garish metallic plate across the patient’s chest.

What cruelty, Cyclonus thought. Now all we can be afforded is to be stitched together with spare parts.

Ratchet sidled to one of the center slabs. Cyclonus stepped to the other side, recognizing the autobot laid out on the slab, but only through his distinctly stocky body shape since his face was almost completely missing. An expressionless metal cranium remained. There were no optics, and the bottom dental plate hung limply from a single hinge. 

“Do you know what happened to him?” asked Cyclonus, still distracted by Swerve’s absent face. 

“It looks like one of the enemy ground forces secured one of Brainstorm’s new pieces of artillery- the _Shoomer_ I believe- and used it on Swerve at point blank range.” Ratchet lightly tapped Swerve’s mangled dental plate with his thumb. The body rattled for a moment atop the slab. “Or more likely, he was borrowing the ordinance from Whirl and did this to himself by accident.” Ratchet shifted his glare to Cyclonus. “Did you see what happened?” he asked.

Cyclonus thought he would spare Swerve the humility; he could hardly blame the poor bastard if he ended up lying about it. “No,” he said. “I must have already been tending to the bomb.”

“I see,” replied Ratchet dismissively. 

Cyclonus knew the medic wasn’t convinced. “What is it that you need from me?” he asked.

“What I _need_ is more sedative, but we ran out of that four patients ago. You’re not hesitant, so just keep his hands away from what’s left of his face so I can do my job.” There was a reverberating twang as Ratchet withdrew a laser scalpel from his wrist and raised it over Swerve’s head. “Try not to hurt hi-”

He was cut off by a shrill, high pitch screech. Several patients, and First Aid, all perked up at the scene. 

Cyclonus bunched up his shoulders. “What is that noise!?”

The doctor’s reaction was something more of an impatient sigh. “He’s screaming.”

“Screaming?” Cyclonus growled, barely audible over the shrieking.

“He’s in excruciating pain, Cyclonus, and he’s probably cognisant enough right now to know that the sound of me unsheathing my scalpel isn’t going to alleviate any of his pain right away.”

Swerve’s arms flailed, red-painted hands swiping wildly at the air. Ratchet swatted away one of the swipes with the back of his hand. 

“Primus’ sake, keep him still Cyclonus!,” barked Ratchet.

Cyclonus slammed his arm against Swerve’s chest and pinned him to the slab. The desperate, clawing fingers latched around Cyclonus’ scarred forearm. A hiss whistled from his hollow cheeks as the patient’s fingertips scraped into the violet finished. And he had just touched up his paint job a few days ago…

Swerve’s writhing chest descended back to the medical slab. His whirring pistons and wheezing airflow slowed. The screeching subsided into a chilling hum.

Ratchet heaved a relieving sigh, and eyed Cyclonus as he tuned the scalpel. “Thank you.” The words trailed off with a tinge of impatience. 

“What are you going to do?” Cyclonus asked.

“Treat him, of course,” Ratchet said. He turned over a piece of sculpted metal in his fingers, then rolled his optics at Cyclonus’ blank, dissatisfied expression. “Well, I’m going to replace several parts of his cranium and reassemble his face.”

“How long will it take?”

“Shouldn’t take long at all. I’ve serviced far worse in more pressing conditions.”

Peering closer at the sculpted metal in the doctor’s hand, Cyclonus noticed it was a bottom dental plate. It reminded him of an organic jaw.

Ratchet leaned in to Swerve’s head, gently applying the laser scalpel to the remaining dental plate hinge and cutting through it. Smoked seared, and Swerve’s malformed whine started to shudder. Cyclonus scraped his claws from his free arm along the slab as the patient’s grip tightened. The armored plating across his forearm started to furrow under Swerve’s squeezing arms and fingers.

Cyclonus watched as Ratchet cut through the ruined dental plate, tune his frame welder and then solder a new plate onto the skull-like cranium. The doctor wired in and calibrated new optics, resculpted the damaged shell around Swerve’s head, and finally applied a new face. The precise nicks and swipes with the scalpel were almost blurred. Cyclonus reflected on the entire operation like it was a single fluid motion, and Ratchet seemed oblivious to Swerve’s consistent groaning. It couldn’t have lasted more than thirty minutes.

“Swerve,” Ratchet said. He placed a hand on his patient’s shoulder. “It’s over.”

The mechanical whimper receded, once again lowering to an unsettling hum and eventual silence. Cyclonus pried away at the hands plastered to his forearm.

“It’s going to take a few days of therapy before he can regain proper control of his voice and face,” the doctor concluded. His optics scoured across Swerve’s body, knuckles studiously propping up his chin. “And don’t touch your face or I’ll disconnect your arms!” Ratchet slapped Swerve’s roaming hands away from his face. “But the worst is taken care of. Cyclonus…”

Cyclonus looked up from Swerve’s still, mannequin-like face. The only motion in it belonged to the optics darting around in their sockets.

“Thank you for your help.” Ratchet wasn’t smiling at him, but it was the first stern, focused expression he’d offered all day.

Cyclonus nodded, and stalked out of the medbay grimacing at the newly acquired scars across his forearm.

—-

“Aaand one tall, partially diluted energon.”

Swerve circled around the table with a tray of pink drinks, all varying in hue. He grabbed the glass with the dullest pink and slid it in front of Cyclonus. The ex-decepticon cocked a brow at the glass. Swerve seemed to have made it a point to always serve him drinks in glasses sporting the autobot insignia. 

The irony was not lost on Cyclonus. He peered through the glass at the refracted emblem. 

“Oh!” Swerve’s optics shifted between Cyclonus and the bar at the other end of the room. “Uh, I can uh, go put that in a different glass for you if you want…” The words trailed off with a hint of shuddering.

Cyclonus responded with a scowl, then glanced back at his drink. He delicately rasped his claws against the side of the glass a few times. His optics shifted back to Swerve, and he gave the bartender an appreciable nod.

“No,” Cylonus said. “This is fine.” Then he lifted the glass with his scarred forearm and began to drink.


End file.
